


Heavy Rains

by babyblueavenger



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Excessive Drinking, Illnesses, Mystery, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Swearing, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-08 02:37:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12854940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyblueavenger/pseuds/babyblueavenger
Summary: Being stranded at Teufort during a raging storm with a gaggle of homicidal mercenaries isn't Miss Pauling's idea of a relaxing vacation. The group tries to make the best of it, but when a mysterious illness starts making its way through the barracks, it's a race against time to find a cure before it's too late. And that's not even bringing the emotional baggage into things.





	1. Chapter 1

Rain was not a common occurrence in Teufort. The town got around fifteen inches of precipitation a year, and even then, most of the townsfolk blamed that on a witch’s curse.

Most of the time, it was bone-dry and hellishly hot, a barren wasteland only fit for a few determined souls and the likes of the Mann. Co mercenaries, men too tough and too damn insane to register things like heat stroke and dehydration.

So naturally, when the local radio weather station predicted bizarre torrential rains headed directly for the small New Mexico town, accompanied by thunder, lightning, and winds reaching at least sixty miles an hour, the townspeople blamed the witch and burned effigies in their front yards. The Mann Co. mercenaries were simply confused.

And although Miss Pauling counted herself among the confused, she had very little time to dwell on it. She was currently overseeing the shipment of various supplies to the men at the Teufort base, to tide them over until the storm had passed. She had put them to work loading the boxes off the truck, so they could sort them in the loading bay later. It was best to keep the nine men occupied during something like this. Each one was a volatile whack job in their own special way. Something about being stuck together in close quarters brought all that out in full, destructive force.

She didn’t need another incident like the one in Coldfront. It’d taken three days to clean up the mess, and most of the mercs still complained about ringing in their ears because of the explosion.

With black clouds looming on the horizon, the project couldn’t be completed fast enough for her liking. Sadly, the mercenaries seemed to be in no big hurry, and kept distracting themselves by bickering and trying to loot through the boxes like a bunch of excited kids, eager to see what they’d gotten for Christmas. 

“I ain’t lifting that one,” Miss Pauling heard Scout shout. Looking over the rim of her clipboard, she saw him standing next to a large box, and staring up at Soldier. Scout’s face was scrunched up in what he probably thought was an intimidating glare. Miss Pauling thought he just looked constipated. Soldier carried two boxes, one on each of his shoulders, and didn’t look too happy to have Scout in his face, managing to pull off a legitimately intimidating look, even with his helmet obscuring his eyes. 

“That box weighs twice as much as me. I try to lift that, I’m gonna snap in two,” Scout continued.

Soldier snorted like an angry bull, and said, or rather yelled, “Back in my day, we didn’t have Sallies like you running around. We were strong and lifted boxes all damn day. And then we threw those boxes at the Nazis and we LIKED IT.” 

“Pardon me if I ain’t gonna take my history lessons from a certifiable head case like you,” Scout yelled back, jamming his tiny body as close to Soldier’s as possible. It wasn’t exactly the dominant stance he’d hoped for, since he did only come up to the bottom of Soldier’s chin, but he held his ground nonetheless. 

“Oh, son, your mouth is writing checks your butt will find uncashable. Uncashable, you hear me!?” Soldier growled, lobbing the boxes he carried to the ground. He shoved himself even closer to Scout, and continued his tirade. “Insinuate that I am crazy one more time, and your butt will be escorted from the bank, am I understood, private?!”

As the two men continued to scream in each other’s faces, Engineer, Heavy, and Sniper walked by them, each carrying a box on their shoulder. Engineer cast a look between Scout, Soldier, and the three boxes lying on the ground, and then, shaking his head, picked up one with his free hand and slung it under his arm. Heavy and Sniper quietly did the same. 

Miss Pauling felt a headache coming on as thunder rumbled in the distance. 

It was soon drowned out by a loud, celebratory “Woooooo!” that sounded from inside the loading bay. Suddenly, Demoman came rushing out, a bottle of Mann Co. beer in each hand, and a few on the bandolier that usually held his grenades. Miss Pauling didn’t want to think about where the grenades were now. 

“Feast yer eyes on this, lads,” Demo called, using a thumb to pop off the cap of a bottle and take a swig. “The lass was good enough te bring us a whole case of the stuff. This wee squall will pass in no time if I have my way about it.”

“Ya best take it easy there, partner,” Engineer said, setting his boxes by Demo’s feet. “Otherwise that case ain’t gonna last you two hours, let alone the entire storm.”

Demo paid him no attention, simply tipped his head back and drained the open bottle. After he’d gotten every last drop, he let out a long sigh of satisfaction before he pointed to Miss Pauling and said, “Bless ye, lass.”

Miss Pauling gave a small smile and said, “I figured you guys might as well have some small comforts while you’re shut up during the storm. It’d get pretty boring around here otherwise.” After a moment’s consideration, she added, “Just please don’t overdo it. I do not want to come back to another Coldfront.”

Medic came up behind her, carrying a box of bottled water in front of him, and huffed, saying, “It was not so bad, Miss Pauling. I managed to reattach Scout’s thumb completely after all.”

Before Miss Pauling could register that nobody had ever mentioned any thumb reattachments, another rumble of thunder, much closer than the last, made the ground tremble beneath them. “Alright, you guys,” she said, taking her lavender pen from behind her ear. “Looks like the rain is ahead of schedule. We need to get these last couple boxes in the base before we all get soaked. Heavy, Engie, can you bring them in? There should only be a few more, mostly more water and stuff.”

The two men nodded and started their way back over to the truck. Miss Pauling continued, “Medic, Sniper, get inside and help Demo, Pyro, and Spy sort through all that stuff. Try to keep Pyro away from the paper products until Engie gets back in there to distract him.”

Medic and Sniper did not look at all happy about their assignment of dealing with the firebug, but they obeyed without a fight, although Miss Pauling swore she heard Medic mumble something she knew for certain to be a German swear. She didn’t bother herself with it at the moment. Soldier and Scout were still arguing a few yards away, and Soldier had managed somehow to find his shovel. This needed to be taken care of before first blood. Tucking her pen back behind her ear, Miss Pauling walked over to them, and managed to catch more of their ridiculous argument insults layered on top of each other so only snippets could be heard at a time. 

“...think your shovel scares me, ya lunkhead?”

“...and we lived on falcon eggs and rocks…”

Miss Pauling’s head ached harder. “Guys, that’s enough!” 

“He started it!” Scout said, jabbing an accusatory finger right into Soldier’s helmet. 

Miss Pauling saw Engineer and Heavy out of the corner of her eye. Their arms were loaded with boxes, and they cast a wary look up at the sky before dashing inside, the added weight of the supplies nothing to them. She heaved a silent sigh through her nose. “I don’t care who started it,” she said evenly. “I’m here to finish it. Now quit screaming in each other’s faces and get inside. If you don’t hurry, you’re gonna get -”

There was a blinding flash of lightning, following by a deafening crash of thunder. Then, the sky almost seemed to open up, and the torrential downpour hit them like a tidal wave beating the shore. All three of them were sodden in a matter of seconds.

“...soaked.”

Soldier and Scout looked at Miss Pauling like a couple of scolded children. Miss Pauling merely jabbed a finger in the direction of the loading bay, and they both began marching toward it. Miss Pauling followed behind them, regretting with every step that she’d decided to wear pumps that kept getting stuck in the sucking desert mud.

\--------------

As soon as Miss Pauling was inside, a towel was draped over her shoulder courtesy of Engineer. She gave him a smile, set her clipboard (which had thankfully managed to stay mostly dry) to the side, and furiously started rubbing herself down. As she pulled off her glasses to wipe the rain off, she saw Sniper throw a couple of towels to Soldier and Scout, managing to hit Scout directly in the face. The towel muffled Scout’s indignant yelp, which Sniper was ignoring anyway to pull down the loading bay door. 

Throwing the towel back over her shoulders, Miss Pauling slicked back the strands of hair that had come loose from her bun and pulled out her pen. “Okay, guys, time for some inventory. Just wanna make sure that everything is here. I can already check off the beer…”

Demo gave another hearty “Woooooo!”, before throwing back another bottle.

“So let’s crack open the rest of these and get them put away.”

To her side, Heavy nodded and grabbed a nearby crowbar, jamming it under the lid of the nearest crate and jimmying it open in one swift motion. He tossed the lid out of the way, and it landed with a thick clunk. Engineer tapped Pyro on the shoulder and motioned for him to help him sift through it, while Heavy moved along the line of boxes, cracking each of them open like a powerful machine for a pair of mercs to dig through. For once, Miss Pauling felt as though things were going to go smoothly.

Another crack of thunder made her jump. The noise was as clear as if they didn’t have concrete walls surrounding them, and that made Miss Pauling nervous. She didn’t like being nervous. Nervousness meant a lack of control. 

“Sure would be nice if we had a radio,” she said, thinking out loud more than anything.

“Oh yes,” Spy suddenly said, pulling himself away from the box he and Sniper rifled through. “I almost forgot.” He ducked down, and pulled up a small, beat-up black baseball radio. “I’m sure this will be sufficient. Assuming it still works.”

“Hey, that’s mine!” Scout shouted as soon as he set eyes on the radio.

“Don’t be such a child. I merely borrowed it for a greater purpose,” Spy said, setting the device on a nearby chair. He flicked a switch on the side, and a small burst of static began emanating from the speakers, nearly drowned out completely by the rain beating intensely against the metal roof.

“You coulda just asked,” Scout said, the pout evident in his voice as he went back to pulling paper towels and toilet paper out of his box. “Didn’t have to go through my room and swipe my stuff.”

“Oh, don’t act so scandalized. I go through everyone’s rooms,” Spy said dismissively as he fiddled with the knobs. For a minute or two, it seemed that the radio wouldn’t be able to do anything but spit static at them because of the rain. They got snippets of a drawling political discussions and a very garbled classical music station (which seemed to disappoint Medic immensely), but finally, Spy managed to find the Teufort weather station, although it was quite faint, and interrupted by the occasional burst of static.

_“...citizens wisely preparing for what promises to be a very brutal storm, possibly the *bzzzzzt* of Teufort has ever seen. There *bzzzt* reports of mass flooding, especially along the road leading out of the town and to the highway. All *bzzt* redirected, and many of the roads closed down until the end of the storm. Civilians are advised *bzzzzzzzzt* leaving Teufort, as it is currently incredibly unsafe.”_

Miss Pauling’s headache returned with a roaring vengeance. 

She was stranded here. She was stranded with a group of nine mercenaries who, last time they’d been cooped up together, had caused explosions and apparently lost thumbs. 

“Well, ain’t that a kick in the teeth,” Engineer muttered. “I’m real sorry, Miss Pauling. Looks like you’re stuck with us for the next couple of days.”

The rest of the mercs looked up at her apologetically. Well, except for Scout, who looked quite pleased at this turn of events. In an obvious attempt at smoothness, he said, “Yeah, that’s definitely too bad. But hey, I’m sure we can make the most of it.” He flashed Miss Pauling a crooked smile that made him look like an excited puppy. Miss Pauling had to bite back a frustrated groan.

Spy, letting out a quiet huff, rolled his eyes and shut off the baseball radio. Taking two long strides, he reached Scout’s side and shoved the radio into the boy’s hands. “Yes, we’ll certainly make the most of it,” he said, his tone borderline scolding. “Which is why Miss Pauling will be staying in my room. On the opposite end of the base from yours.”

A titter rippled through the group of men. Scout’s face reddened, and he shot Spy a glare very suited to a sullen teenager. 

“Oh, Spy,” Miss Pauling said. “I don’t want take your room.”

“Nonsense,” Spy replied, waving off her concerns. “I insist. I’ll stay in my smoking room. The chairs there are as comfortable as any bed.”

Miss Pauling gave him a grateful smile. “Well, thank you, then. I appreciate that.”

Another crash of thunder made the base tremble around them. Engineer nearly dropped the case of Bonk he was pulling out of a crate. “Sheeeoot,” he muttered. “Always hated storms. Got the worst back home. Least you don’t gotta worry about twisters here. If we had to deal with one of those, I’d be heading for the hills.”

As soon as Engineer set down the case, Scout tore into it, pulling out a can and popping it open. It fizzed merrily. He tipped it back, draining the contents in seconds. Crushing the now-empty can in his hand and tossing it over his shoulder, he said, “You think a twister is bad, hard hat? Try a hurricane. Not only do you got rain, thunder, and lightning 24/7, okay? But you gotta worry about floods too. I remember when I was nine, we got hit with a really bad one. Any of you guys ever heard of Hurricane Esther? Worst one that I’ve ever been through. We got stuck inside for days. Couldn’t leave, couldn’t nothing. Made one of my brothers cry. That was actually the one bright spot of the whole thing.”

Scout’s light-speed chatter tapered off as he pulled out another Bonk and cracked it open. The other mercs seemed to deflate with relief at the silence. 

The reprieve did not last, as the loudest crash of thunder the storm had offered up yet once again shook the base. It felt like a bomb had been detonated right outside the loading bay door. 

And then the lights went out. 

“Well, hell…” Miss Pauling heard Engineer grumble.

From somewhere in the dark, Pyro let out a frightened whine. Engineer once again spoke, this time in a much gentler tone “It’s okay, Smokey,” he said. “I can get those back on, no problem. Just gotta find a flashlight…”

There was a sound of something heavy colliding with a body, and someone let out an “oof!” 

“Shit, sorry, uh, whoever that was…” Engineer said. 

“No worries, mate,” Sniper ground out. “Ain’t like I need all me ribs anyways…ow...”

There was a sound of footsteps, then a cry of pain from Spy. “That was my foot, bushman!”

“You try getting a metal arm to the gut, ya bloody spook,” Sniper hissed back. “Think it’d take your mind off your shoes getting a bit scoffed.”

“I doubt it, considering these shoes cost more than that repulsive van you sleep in.”

Someone fell backwards into one of the crates, apparently grabbing Medic on the way down. Miss Pauling heard him cry out, “Scheisse!”

“Jesus, hard hat,” Scout grumbled. Miss Pauling heard him scrambling to get back to his feet. He must have been the one to fall into the boxes. “You’re gonna kill somebody with that thing.”

“Well, it’s damn dark, son. I don’t know what to tell ya.” Another thud of metal against flesh, but this time the flesh sounded much more solid. Engineer must have hit Heavy. “Sorry, big guy…”

“Is no problem,” Heavy said casually.

“Did anyone actually see a flashlight in any of the boxes?” Miss Pauling asked. She stood as still as she could. There was no need to contribute anymore to this unfolding chaos. 

No one answered her. They were heading towards another Coldfront at full speed.

Then, suddenly, a tiny light filled the space. It drew everyone’s attention simultaneously. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, sat Pyro. In his hands, his lighter, burning brightly.

Engineer grinned and said, “Well, ain’t you a smart little bug?” 

Pyro merely let out a sheepish giggle. 

Miss Pauling did a quick survey of things - Sniper was still gingerly holding his ribs, though he looked like he wasn’t in too much pain. Spy, now that he was actually able to see them, seemed to be inspecting the damage done to his shoes. Scout hoisted himself back up into a standing position, while Medic glared daggers at him for pulling him down. Engineer was roughly an inch away from Heavy’s gargantuan torso. Demo took advantage of the light to pop the top off another bottle of beer, which he handed to Soldier. Both watched the others fumble over each other from a safe distance. Miss Pauling heard them chortle. 

She took a deep breath. Things were okay. No one was injured. No one was dead. She could work with this.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Engineer slap Pyro’s hand away from a roll of paper towel stick out of a crate, which he’d been slowly moving the lighter closer and closer to. Pyro let out a defeated whine.

She could mostly work with this.

\---------------  
It took Engineer two and a half hours to restore the power. “Would have gotten it sooner,” he said as he came back into the loading bay, wiping the sweat away from under his hard hat, “but there were a few times when I had to back off ‘cause of the lightning. Don’t wanna get cooked if it strikes here again.”

“I thought lightning didn’t strike in the same place twice,” Scout said. He’d found his baseball and was lazily tossing it in the air and catching it as it came back down.

Engineer grinned a bit and replied, “That’s just a myth, son. Been through enough storms to know that lightning tends to do strike wherever it damn well pleases.”

Scout seemed unimpressed by this fact. He merely turned his attention back to his baseball, his expression bored and, oddly enough, sleepy. Miss Pauling didn’t even know it was possible for Scout to run out of energy. 

Then again, looking at the seven other men lounging around the loading bay, she couldn’t say she was surprised. In the two and a half hours Engineer had been fiddling with the power, they’d been cleaning out the crates of supplies and putting everything away, seeing only by flashlight. It had surprisingly taken a lot out of them. Demo and Soldier were both on the edge of sleep, sitting back to back, still holding bottles of beer in their hands as their heads dipped every so often. More bottles were scattered around their feet. 

Sniper had pulled his hat over his face, and she noticed his body slackening every so often as he dozed. Spy took a lazy drag of his cigarette. Medic had fetched his chessboard and had coaxed Heavy into a game. Pyro was practically curled up on the floor like a kitten, napping. 

The rain had eased up a bit, though it still hit the roof with rigid consistency. Miss Pauling listened to it for a minute. She supposed that the sound would be enough to lull even hardened mercenaries to sleep after a stressful day of work. 

“What about the rest of the stuff in the control room?” she asked. She tried not to yawn. Confound that rain, it was soothing.

“It’s pretty much all shot,” Engineer replied. “Communications are down, and the respawn is just...out. And crawling in there to fix it while this storm is still raging is outta the question. Lightning strikes while I’m in there, I come out looking like bacon left on the skillet too long.”

Miss Pauling couldn’t help the groan that escaped. 

No communications. No respawn. 

Normally, that wouldn’t bother her. As concerned as she was about the mercs eventually snapping from the confinement and inflicting bodily harm on each other, she at least trusted them enough to not kill each other. They feared Medic and his particular brand of “healing” enough to try and keep themselves in one piece for the next few days. 

It was just one more thing to worry about. One more thing that could make things worse. One more thing out of her control. One more thing that she’d have to write up in the mountains of paperwork that were inevitably going to follow this whole debacle. Her head throbbed again.

Spy stood up, pulling her from her increasingly anxious thoughts. Taking one last drag of his cigarette and stamping it out against one of the discarded crates, he said, “I don’t know about the rest of you, gentlemen, but I find myself all ‘funned’ out. And if no one is interesting in cooking dinner…”

A collective groan rose up from the exhausted pile of mercenaries.

“As I expected. With that, I believe I shall retire for the evening.” He turned on his heels until he was facing Miss Pauling. “Shall we?” he asked, motioning towards the hall.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” she replied. She had been so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she’d almost forgotten Spy offering his room. She found herself a little too wired for sleep just yet, but she honestly couldn’t think of anything else to do to kill time until she was. Maybe she could just lay down, stare at the ceiling, and wonder what antagonistic gods had thought it amusing to strand her here. 

She let him lead down the hall, past the dining hall and respawn room, and into the barracks. They passed eight doors, one for every man in the base - except, generally, for Sniper. Like any outdoorsman, he preferred sleeping outside, and made a habit of sleeping out in his camper van whenever the weather permitted. Weather was most definitely not permitting now, and Miss Pauling had gently persuaded him to remain indoors for the remainder of the storm. Although the suggestion had made him stare at her like she’d grown another head out of her abdomen, he’d grumbled an agreement. 

And Miss Pauling’s mother wondered why her daughter seemed so lukewarm on the idea of children.

She nearly collided with Spy’s back as he stopped in front of the final door, near the end of the hallway. They had reached his quarters. Miss Pauling made no comment about how close it was to a large exit sign, leading out of the base. 

“If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask me,” Spy said as he opened his door, motioning for Miss Pauling to enter ahead of him. Ever the gentleman, even when motioning a lady into the spartan barracks of a military base. 

Looking around the room as she stepped in, she realized “spartan” might even be too generous for Spy’s room. The place was almost completely bare. She knew for a fact that most of the other mercs had some personal things in their rooms - photos of family, posters, calendars, even the occasional pin-up picture in Scout’s case. 

Spy’s room was completely spotless. His thin bed was made, blankets smooth and pristine, pillow propped against the wall and looking like a human head had never made contact with it. Minimal personal effects. Hardly a hint about what kind of man lived here, as much a mystery as Spy himself. 

The only indication a person was ever in this room was the desk, which held a line of books, pressed against the wall. Moving closer to them, Miss Pauling realized they were very well-thumbed, having obviously seen multiple readings. One book was set aside from the others, a scrap of paper stuck between the pages to act as a bookmark - _A Pocket Full of Rye_ by Agatha Christie. 

Spy was reading a cozy mystery?

A quick look at the other books on the desk revealed similarly unexpected titles, at least the ones that weren’t in French - seven books all featuring “Austen” embossed in gold lettering on the spine. A few more Christies thrown in. _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_. Even a dime store copy of _The Andromeda Strain_. 

“You are more than welcome to read those.” Miss Pauling jumped a bit. She’d almost forgotten Spy was in the room, and with his infamous cat-like quietness and grace, he’d walked up to her side to see what she’d been gawking at. He’d pulled out a cigarette in that time, and had managed to silently light it. 

“I simply ask that you be careful with Mr. Crichton,” he continued. “A few of the pages are falling out. Cheap glue does not last in New Mexico heat, as it turns out.”

“Yeah…” Miss Pauling muttered, feeling the heat rising to her cheeks and ears. “Um, sorry for being nosy. I just...ya know, never pegged you for much of a reader. Let alone Miss Marple.”

Spy chuckled a bit. “Things can be tedious around here when there are no battles to fight. And _Dapper Cadaver_ is only a monthly subscription, after all.” 

Miss Pauling smiled back. Though she’d never say it to Spy’s face, these books offered a look at a side of him he did his best never to show anyone - a human side. It was strangely endearing that this man, who prided himself of his suavity and mystique and ruthless efficiency at putting knives in backs, could be content with reading a quaint story about a spinster turned amatuer sleuth. 

She cast another glance at the books. “I don’t get much time for reading these days,” she said. “Demands of the job, ya know? I don’t think I’ve sat down and read a full book since I was in college.”

“I would go mad,” Spy said, pulling a face of mock horror. “Surely we must catch you up. After all, you have plenty of time to fill presently.” He ran a finger down the line of books, humming curiously to himself as he did. 

“Really, Spy, it’s fine,” Miss Pauling said. “I’m sure I can find something to do to pass the time.”

“Oh yes,” Spy said. He didn’t look up from the line of books. “I’m sure that Scout would be more than willing to let you ‘hang out’ with him. Sounds positively riveting.”

“...give me the damn book.”

A sly smile spread across Spy’s lips as he pulled out one of the Austen books and held it out to her. Gold lettering on the cover read _Pride and Prejudice_. She recalled being threatened with the book in high school, if she had chosen to take the AP courses. All the upperclassmen girls had complained loudly about it. She’d stuck with the regular English course and only had to read _Huck Finn_. 

“I dunno, Spy…”

Spy gently set the book in her hands and closed her fingers around it. “Just give it a try, and if you don’t care for it, bring it back. I have many more in my smoking room to choose from,” he said. “I know it seems daunting, but believe me, she is worth it. Besides, I believe you’ll find...a bit of kinship with Miss Elizabeth Bennett.”

“Yeah?”

“She too often finds herself the only voice of reason amongst less than sane persons.”

Miss Pauling couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll give it a shot.”

“Excellent,” Spy said. She didn’t miss the excitement evident in his voice. “Perhaps we can even discuss it once you’ve finished?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“Ah, well, it was a noble effort, no?” Spy said, his grin slightly devilish. 

Miss Pauling chuckled again. 

Spy’s grin softened a bit as he said, “I realize this was not the way you intended to spend the next few days. And I know the others and I...we can be a bit overwhelming.”

“That’s not…” Miss Pauling trailed off, the bare-faced lie dying on her tongue.

“I appreciate you not thinking you had to spare my feelings,” Spy said. “Although we may not act like it, all of us are fairly self-aware. We are forced to spend every day around each other. We know what we are like. I promise you, Miss Pauling, I will try and make this as uneventful as I can.”

Miss Pauling felt a warmth rise in her chest. She clutched the book a little tighter as she said, “Thank you, Spy. For everything.”

Spy bowed slightly at the waist. “You’re quite welcome. Goodnight to you, and enjoy the book.”

And with that, he grabbed up the Agatha Christie and walked out, shutting the door softly behind him. 

Miss Pauling looked down at the book in her hand again. It didn’t look too terribly long, and besides, Spy had offered other stuff if she didn’t like it. There was no harm in humoring him, not after a promise like that. 

Especially when a glance at her watch showed it was only a little past nine, and she didn’t feel in the slightest bit tired. Who knew, maybe a boring book would be the best way to help her fall asleep.

She sat down on Spy’s bed and removed her mud-caked shoes. She tossed them under the desk, so they’d be out of the way. Then came the nylons, which she pulled off gingerly and folded neatly. At two pair for a dollar, she wasn’t taking any chances with them. She pulled out the four bobby pins and the rubber band that held her bun in place. She tossed them onto the nearby desk. She gave her now-free hair a quick tousle. Then she pulled her arms into her blouse and undid her bra clasp, pulling it out and tossing it on the floor with the shoes. 

Fuck it, she was basically in for the night, and she liked to think no one would come in without knocking first. She was willing to put up with a lot of things, but sleeping in her bra wasn’t one of them.

She laid back, propping herself up a bit on Spy’s pillow, and nestled the book on her chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something small and white at the far end of the desk.

Upon further inspection, she realized it was a bottle of aspirin. A water bottle sat on the desk next to it. She hadn’t even heard Spy set them down before he left. 

Well, now there was no two ways about it. She’d have to read the book. It would only be polite. 

\--------------

Medic felt his eye give an involuntary twitch when he heard Scout’s loud, obnoxious groans just outside the doors of his lab. And here he’d been hoping to spend the evening in relative peace and quiet, cleaning up around the lab or doing paperwork or tinkering with some Uber upgrades, to the tranquil sound of the rain outside. Another groan, obviously meant to sound piteous, echoed through his lab as Scout stumbled in, slamming the swinging door so hard it banged into the wall and frightened many of the nearby doves into fluttering, in search of less dangerous perches. 

Medic’s eye twitched again. He pushed his glasses up and said, “What is it Scout?”

He lifted his head to look at the younger mercenary, who stumbled over to his desk, clutching his stomach as if it were ripping him apart from the inside. “Doooooooc,” he moaned. He sounded like a toddler crying for it’s mother when it wasn’t getting enough attention. “I’m dying, doc, you gotta save me.”

Medic rolled his eyes. Scout was, to be perfectly frank, the biggest baby he’d ever known when it came to physical maladies. Skinned knees got him grinding through clenched teeth that he was sure to bleed out in moments. A black eye had him wailing that he was blind now, worse off even than the black Scottish cyclops. Stomach cramps got him in the fetal position, crying out that it was cancer, it had to be cancer, tell his mother he loved her. Every time, Medic checked him out, submitting him to a full physical exam if that’s what it took, simply to silence the bellyaching. He never found anything more wrong with Scout than the typical bumps and bruises that befell every other man in this God-forsaken base. 

He wasn’t about to entertain Scout’s incessant whining tonight, not when the weather already had him in a less than ideal mood. 

“Scout, I do not have the patience for you tonight,” he grumbled, standing from his chair and walking out from behind his desk. Perhaps if he put distance between himself and the little twerp, Scout would get the message and leave him be. 

“Aww, come on, doc!” If anything, Scout’s whining got even more pathetic. “Feels like I’m gonna keel over any second. Have a little sympathy, will ya?” 

“I rarely have sympathy for the idiot who comes in here every time he stubs his toe,” Medic snapped. 

Scout opened his mouth, probably to plead his case again, but he quickly shut it and let out another choked moan. His arms pulled even tighter around his abdomen. If Medic hadn’t known better, he’d almost call that genuine pain on Scout’s face. 

Medic didn’t have any illusions about his position. He was not what many called “a caring professional”. To him, the healing was a rather tedious side effect of his experiments. After all, it was easier to poke someone’s atrophied liver if they weren’t in danger of dying on you before you could put it back. But you just didn’t figure out the secret to cheating life-threatening injuries by being a bleeding heart to every whining toddler that came limping through your door with stomachaches and broken bones and the entirety of their blood on the outside of their body. It just cut into the amount of hours you could spend finding reasonably priced Loch Ness hamster hearts. 

But he wasn’t entirely without compassion. While his comrades tended to give him funny looks when he asked for volunteers for his more...ambitious projects, they did still volunteer. The wild success of his Ubercharge was proof of that. And the biggest reason for it was because he tried his damnedest to do it as painlessly as possible. It didn’t take a dubiously achieved medical license to know that people didn’t like pain, not even mercenaries who were used to be shot, stabbed, and blown to bits. 

Medic was many things, but a sadist was not one of them. It just wasn’t conducive to his curiosity. 

Which is why, after another pained groan from Scout, he sighed heavily, opened one of his desk drawers, and pulled out a bottle of white tablets. He tossed them to Scout and said, “Take two of these tonight and get some sleep. If you don’t feel any better in the morning, come back. Then I’ll see what else I can do, ja?”

Relief blossomed on Scout’s face. “Thanks, doc,” he said. He turned the bottle over in his hand, the tablets clacking together against the glass. “So, these penicillin or something?”

“It’s aspirin, Scout,” Medic said, turning his attention back to his papers. “You probably will not need penicillin any time soon. Unless you have a case of syphilis you haven’t mentioned. In which case I _have_ been working on a super vaccine from some spare bits of the bread tumors. You will never guess where that gets injected…” For added effect, he looked up slightly and gave his best maniacal grin.

What little color was left in Scout’s face drained away, and he muttered a “Night, doc” before tucking the bottle in his pocket and stiffly walking out. 

Medic chuckled once he was alone. He may not have been a sadist by nature, but he seemed to becoming quite cunning in his advancing age.


	2. Chapter 2

Sniper didn’t understand why things felt so off that morning. It’s not as if things were any different from days they didn’t have to work. True, it was still bloody dreary outside, with rain pelting down on them, heavy as ball bearings, but things were - for them anyway - normal.

He and Engineer had woken up first, as always. Rising with the sun was second nature to farm boys like them, even if Sniper had felt pretty cagey all night. He simply wasn’t used to sleeping in the barracks, and had almost been itchy for the remote safety of his van. But Miss Pauling had rightfully pointed out that sleeping outside when there was a chance of flooding wasn’t too terribly smart. He’d managed to tough it out, get a decent eight hours, and wake up feeling only a little stiff in the lower back. These military beds weren’t worth a damn.

After a few hours, in which he and Engie had brewed up a nice pot of coffee and sat in amicable silence over a cup, the latter started cooking up some breakfast for everyone. No one had ever asked him to, it was just something Engineer seemed to enjoy. The smell of eggs and coffee started to draw the others out of their quarters - first Heavy, followed by Pyro, Medic, and Spy, the last three in varying orders and varying stages of wakefulness. 

Demo stumbled out a little later, downing two cups of coffee he’d given an Irish twist before he even considered touching the food. 

Finally Miss Pauling emerged, the only indication she’d slept her slightly wrinkled blouse. Her bun was strict and tight as usual, her glasses slightly crooked, her face not betraying one ounce of the stress she’d clearly been feeling the day before. Sniper was glad for that. Staying with them wasn’t exactly his idea of a relaxing vacation, but it seemed to do her good anyway. She was too young to always look as worried as she did.

Engineer seemed to feel the same way, smiling as he slid two runny eggs out of the frying pan and onto to a plate. He passed them over to Pyro. The firebug made a noise that Sniper supposed was appreciative, and immediately began dunking bits of his toast into the gooey yolks. He pulled his mask a bit away from his face and stuck the toast inside, presumably to reach his mouth. Sniper heard contented chewing. 

For all intents and purposes, this was a normal morning. And yet Sniper couldn’t shake the odd feeling in his gut that something wasn’t quite right.

“Mornin’, Miss Pauling,” Engineer said, spooning another glob of butter into the pan. “How do you take your eggs?”

“Over easy, if you don’t mind,” Miss Pauling replied. “Any more of that coffee left?”

Spy was already on his feet as she asked, pouring her a generous mugful. “You’ll find, Miss Pauling, that this is one thing we keep a very steady supply of around here.”

As soon as her hands were around the steaming mug, she took a long drink. Sniper had never known any woman that took her coffee black. But then, Miss Pauling was not like other women he’d known. 

She let out a contented sigh as she swallowed. “Gotta love that strong Mann Co. coffee,” she said. “It goes down like hot glue, but it certainly hits the spot.”

“Fortunately, for me,” Spy said, “we keep plenty of milk around as well. French coffee can be a bit strong, but it is practically water compared to this.” He took a sip from his own mug, the color of hazelnuts from all the milk. 

“Agreed. It baffles me how anyone can take this coffee black,” Medic said, refilling his own mug about halfway. The rest of the room watched in silent horror as he filled the rest of the mug with milk, then dumped in teaspoon after teaspoon of sugar. After twelve, he finally stopped, stirred the concoction briefly with a spoon, and took a large swig. “Much better,” he said quietly. 

“You want some coffee with your sugar, doc?” Sniper asked, before draining the last of his own coffee. Taken black, obviously. It was how his dad took it.

Medic shrugged and simply said, “I don’t tell you how to enjoy your bean water.” Then he took another long, loud drink. 

Sniper heard Engineer chuckle a bit as he slid Miss Pauling’s eggs onto a plate. “Order up,” he said, handing them over to her. She took the plate and sat down on Sniper’s left, and began daintily dabbing a square of toast into the yolks.

As she stuck it in her mouth, she glanced around the room. She suddenly looked confused, and after swallowing, asked, “Where are Scout and Soldier?” She sounded like a mother who realized two of her children had wandered off.

Sniper almost laughed. He could bet money that wasn’t what was off about this morning.

“Trust me, Miss Pauling,” Engineer said, scrambling three more eggs in the pan, “you ain’t gonna see either of those two for a while. Soldier wakes up every morning when we ain’t got ass to kick and works out. Don’t even eat first. Just heads down to the training room and works himself like a dog.”

“And Scout is most likely still asleep,” Spy added, draining the last of his coffee. “Sometimes the smell of food wakes him, but typically we don’t see him before noon.”

This seemed to placate Miss Pauling. Sniper actually saw the tension ease out of her shoulders. 

Engineer scraped the scrambled eggs out of the pan and sat himself, his plate, and his cup of sugared coffee across from Pyro. After a few bites and a long gulp, he turned his attention down to Sniper and said, “Speaking of when the boy regains consciousness, you still up for some poker, stretch?”

Sniper smiled and tipped his coffee mug towards Engineer in affirmation. It was a bit of a tradition they’d started. Slow days meant cards and beer. Most of the time, it was just the two of them, either in a game of gin or five card stud. Scout was the one to join them the most often, and sometimes even Demo, Heavy, and Soldier could be persuaded. He’d been looking forward to it ever since he’d heard the forecast for rain. 

“Once we get the dishes done, I’ll see if I can wake him up,” Sniper said. “If not, I’ll just have to jimmy the lock on his door.”

“Scout sleeps with his door locked?” Miss Pauling asked.

“We insisted,” Medic said. “After Spy walked in once without knocking first, and…”

Spy interrupted him by loudly clearing his throat. “As I recall, we all agreed never to speak of that again,” he said. “Ever.”

After a moment of stifling silence, Miss Pauling simply said, “Ew.”

The men around her burst into laughter, and the uncomfortable air seemed to be swept out of the room entirely. Sniper shoved down that feeling of wrongness in his belly. It was probably nothing. Instincts could be wrong after all.

\------------------

Everything had been fine until Soldier showed up at the door of the infirmary, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

Medic actually felt much better that morning. Almost chipper. The rain still pounded mercilessly on the metal roof of the base, but a good night’s sleep and not seeing Scout for the first few hours of the day could do wonders for a man’s disposition. Along with a belly full of toast, eggs, and a large, hot cup of coffee (Sniper could pry his sugar milk from his cold, dead hands), he was ready to muddle through his day and maybe actually feel good about it.

But then he looked up at there was Soldier, standing at attention, as if he were waiting for Medic. 

Soldier, in all the years that Medic had known him, never came to the infirmary of his own free will for anything that wasn’t the Uber. There was no injury that Soldier got that he wouldn’t insist he could walk off, even if that injury involved multiple broken bones in both legs. 

If Soldier ever absolutely needed to get medical attention, Medic typically had to sneak a sedative into his food. And even then, it was a coin toss if Soldier would stay unconscious long enough for Medic to fix him up as needed. Once when he’d required stitches after a run-in with the enemy Scout, he’d come around while Medic was still sewing him up and punched him right in the mouth. It’d knocked one of his front teeth loose and swollen his cheek for a week. 

“Did you need me for something?” Medic asked cautiously. 

“My stomach hurts, doc,” Soldier said. The response was quick, and Soldier shut his mouth so quickly once he was finished speaking Medic swore he heard his teeth click together. 

And wasn’t that just odd. Two men complaining of stomach ailments within twelve hours of each other, one complaint coming from a man who’d rather eat his own helmet than submit to a medical exam. 

Medic tried to tell himself that this was nothing to worry about. As he recalled, Soldier and Demo had done a superb job of putting a dent in the beer Miss Pauling had brought them. For all he knew, Soldier was simply hungover.

But that nagging, persistent fact still stood - this was Soldier. 

Medic sighed and said, “Very well, let’s have a look at you.” 

He moved forward to unlock the infirmary doors, accidentally brushing up against Soldier’s side. He stopped momentarily when he felt how incredibly warm Soldier was. He could feel it through the fabric of his military jacket, and this close, he could see a thin sheen of sweat on Soldier’s face.

There was definitely something wrong here. 

Medic’s doves cooed when he entered, but didn’t flutter or attempt to land on his shoulders. They seemed to sense that he had important things to deal with, and watched anxiously from the rafters. He instructed Soldier to hop up on a gurney, while he dug out a few things - a thermometer, his stethoscope, a box of tongue depressors. He dusted them off a bit as he told himself this was something he could handle easily. Soldier and Scout wouldn’t have the same ailment. They barely spent time together outside of the battlefield. How could they possibly catch the same thing?

After giving the thermometer a good shake, he walked back over to the gurney. “Under your tongue, Soldier,” he said.

Soldier obeyed without a word. Medic tried not to think about how that worried him as he pulled out his pocketwatch and began counting down three minutes. 

He remembered, hadn’t he told Scout to come back if he didn’t feel any better last night? Obviously, he couldn’t be too sick, or he wouldn’t be sleeping in until noon as per usual. Medic blamed the sugary Bonk Scout had insisted upon guzzling down the day before. He must have had three cans by the time they were finished unpacking everything from the supply crates. He really would have to look at the lining of Scout’s stomach one day. He would be amazed if the boy didn’t have ulcers yet. 

The three minutes ticked by, and Medic removed the thermometer. “103.7,” he said. “This is a high-grade fever, Soldier. You were smart to come here. Any other symptoms you’ve noticed?”

“Sore. My throat hurts,” Soldier said. His voice was quiet. He almost sounded like a child. “And I’m cold.”

That didn’t surprise Medic. Chills with a fever like this were the body’s way of trying to restore balance. He wouldn’t be surprised if Soldier started shivering soon. Combine that with the soreness, and it sounded like the flu. Medic felt some tension he didn’t know he’d been carrying release from his shoulders. The flu was easy. The flu he could deal with. Soldier would be fine with aspirin, fluids, and bedrest. True, it was still odd that Soldier had dragged himself all the way down here for something as simple as the flu, but he supposed everyone had their breaking point. 

Medic walked over to his desk, to get the bottle of aspirin he kept in his drawer, ready to give Soldier the okay to leave and head straight back to bed. Sure, the other man wouldn’t particularly like to hear it, since it would put him out of commission on the battlefield for at least a week, but that was just the price one paid for their physical health. 

The drawer was empty, and it took Medic a moment to remember he’d given the aspirin to Scout the night before. He bit back the irritated grumbling. He could just go grab the bottle and come back. With as puny as Soldier was behaving, Medic figured he could leave him for a few minutes. 

Still, as he left, he said to Soldier, scolding like a parent, “I need to retrieve something. Stay right there.”

Soldier merely nodded vacantly, his helmet tilting a bit. Medic started walking a bit faster.

\--------------

The feeling had returned to Sniper’s gut again. It was usually never this hard to wake up Scout.

He checked his watch. It was almost 12:30, and the others were getting itchy for their card game. Usually by this point in the day, Scout had shown his face, even if he was only clad in the boxer shorts and Red Sox shirt he wore as pajamas and stumbling towards the bathroom. 

He rapped his knuckles against the door again, pressed his ear close to the wood. He heard nothing - no murmurings and grumblings from the kid, no sounds of him turning over, not even the light snoring that Scout swore up and down that he did not do. “Come on, Scout,” he said loudly. “Get your lazy arse outta bed or we’re starting the game without you.”

Absolutely no sound from within. The feeling in his gut tightened, like someone was giving his innards a squeeze.

He could just leave, let the lad sleep. They could always deal him in when he did wake up. 

But this feeling...he just couldn’t shake it. He needed to get in there, just to check on the kid. Make sure he was okay. Scout could yell at him for being a paranoid idiot all he wanted once Sniper knew he was okay.

He started fishing about in his pockets for the small penknife his father had given him as a teenager. It wasn’t exactly the ideal lock-picking tool, and he was no expert, but it’d do in a pinch. 

Hard-soled shoes strode up behind him, then stopped. The smell of an expensive cigarette wafted under his nose. He could almost feel Spy eyeing him curiously. 

“I may regret asking this, bushman,” Spy said, “but what are you doing?” 

“Looking for me knife,” Sniper said shortly. Where the bloody hell was it? He couldn’t have left it in the van, could he?

“I could lend you mine. Lord knows you are not the only one who has thought of murder when it comes to Scout.”

The morbid joke did not help Sniper feel any less agitated. “I’m trying to pick the lock, ya damn spook,” he snapped. “He’s not answering the door and I can’t hear anything but the bloody door is locked.”

If Sniper didn’t know better, he’d say that a flash of genuine concern tripped across Spy’s features, gone as soon as it appeared. “You should have said something.” Spy reached into his suit jacket and pulled out his cigarette case. Flipping it open, he took out a rake pick and hook. “If you’ll kindly step aside, I’ll have the door open in a moment.”

Spy kneeled in front of the door, and gently put the tools through the keyhole. Every click and scrape against the lock inside made Sniper a little bit more agitated. He was practically bouncing on his heels.

“What’s the hold up, Snipes?” Engineer was poking his head around the corner, looking back at Sniper and Spy in confusion.

“Can’t get the kid to answer,” Sniper said. He could hear the mounting tension in his voice. 

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Engineer said. 

“Oh, he better damn well be,” Sniper grumbled. 

“You do realize that Scout is an adult. If he wishes to sleep his day away, he’s free to do that,” Spy said. He didn’t look up from his lockpicking. 

“Just get the damn door open,” Sniper said. “Then you lot can hassle me about it.”

A few more minutes of uncomfortable silence ticked by. Sniper didn’t really want to think about why the others had abandoned their attempts to just let Scout be. 

Then a loud click sounded from the inner workings of the door. “ _Et voila_ ,” Spy said, standing back up to his full height and turning the knob. 

Scout didn’t say a word as his door was opened. Poking his head in, Sniper realized that the kid was, indeed, still laying in bed, turned to face the door, curled in on himself. His blankets were tangled around his skinny legs. One of his pillows had been tossed in the floor. He’d definitely had a rough night. Sniper was almost tempted to actually leave him alone, and take his licks for coming off sounding like an overprotective father. 

And then Scout let out a pained groan. Sniper saw Spy and Engineer’s eyes go wide with shock. 

Sniper forgot about being paranoid and overprotective. He quickly walked into Scout’s room and over to his bedside. He spotted a bottle of aspirin on the desk nearby. The lid was off, and a few of the tablets were scattered on the desk surface. A almost-empty glass of water sat next to them. Sniper knelt down and reached out a hand, to shake the kid a bit, and said, “Hey, you alright, Scout?” 

As soon Sniper’s hand rested on Scout’s shoulder, he jerked it back, shocked. It was like touching a hot stovetop. He immediately reached back down, placing a calloused hand on Scout’s forehead. Just to see if he’d actually felt what he’d felt. 

Scout’s forehead was hot to the touch. 

“Go get Medic,” Sniper said over his shoulder. Spy and Engineer still stood in the doorway, not even trying to hide their concern now. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Engineer asked. He took a few long strides and was at Sniper’s side in moments. 

“He’s burning up,” Sniper replied. He moved his hand back down to Scout’s shoulder and tried shaking him, saying gently, “Come on, lad, wake up. You gotta talk to me.”

Scout let out another small groan, and that seemed to be all Spy needed to finally get moving. Sniper knew it’d take him a while to get to the other side of the base and to the infirmary. They’d have to do what they could for Scout while they waited. 

“Help me get him untangled from these blankets,” Sniper told Engineer. “Need to get him covered back up.”

The other man nodded and began doing as he was told. The sudden movement seemed to rouse Scout somewhat, and he opened his eyes a slit, blearily looking up at Sniper. He almost looked like he was trying to figure out who the lanky, older man was.

“Hey, there you are,” Sniper said, only allowing himself to feel the slightest bit of relief. Awake was good, but feverish and confused-looking was still decidedly not. Still, Sniper continued to talk to Scout the way one would to a small child. “You’re alright, lad. Medic’ll be here soon, he’ll fix you up. Just gonna get you covered back up right quick. Don’t need you getting chills on us to boot.”

Scout didn’t respond. He simply buried his head in Sniper’s hip, letting out a tiny, pained whine. It actually broke Sniper’s heart a little. The kid had a tendency of blowing his injuries way out of proportion, but it was never like this. Despite himself, Sniper gingerly stroked the kid’s hair and said, “You’re alright, son. Everything’ll be alright.”

Engineer finished straightening out the thin sheet and tucking it around Scout’s shoulders. His eyes travelled up to the aspirin bottle on the desk. “Scout,” he said, leaning forward a bit, putting himself in the boy’s vision, “did you take any of those?” He pointed in the direction of the aspirin.

Scout’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, as if he were mustering up the energy to speak. He let out a small sigh when he couldn’t do it, and nodded instead. 

“That’s not good,” Engineer said. “Aspirin is supposed to bring down fevers. If he’s still this hot after taking it, it’s not working.”

Sniper didn’t respond. What could he say? It was obvious the aspirin hadn’t done it’s job. But what else were they supposed to do? The extent of Sniper’s first aid knowledge was anti-venom when you got bitten by something. He barely knew how to measure out cough medicine. And fuck if he knew what Engineer could do about this, despite the other man looking positively frantic to try something, anything. 

It must have only been a few minutes before they heard the sounds of boots pounding against the concrete floors in a brisk jog. It felt like it’d been hours. 

Medic appeared in the doorway, and took a quick survey of the scene before coming in. Spy appeared shortly after him. Sniper could see him desperately trying to maintain an air of calm. His face betrayed him though, even through the fabric of his mask. And the fact that Spy felt that way about Scout of all people just made Sniper all the more nervous.

Engineer quickly moved out of the doctor’s way, but Sniper stayed put. Scout’s burning forehead was still buried against his side, and it just didn’t feel right to jostle the poor kid right now. 

“Kid nodded when Engie asked if he took any aspirin. Don’t know how much though,” Sniper offered weakly.

Medic didn’t even look at him. “Has he spoken at all?”

“Just groaning,” Sniper replied. “Don’t think he’s got it in him to talk.”

Medic nodded briskly. He knelt down in front of Scout, and gently lifted the kid’s chin a bit. Scout’s eyes fluttered open a bit, the blurry confusion still there are he tried to focus on Medic’s face. 

“Scout, nod if you can understand me,” Medic said. 

Scout’s head bobbed limply, but there was no denying it was a nod. 

“Did you take the aspirin last night like I told you?”

Another nod.

“Did it help?” This time, Scout shook his head. Medic flicked a glance up at Sniper, almost like he could feel the questions burning on the other man’s tongue. “Last night, Scout came to me complaining of stomach pain. I gave him the aspirin and told him to come back in the morning if it didn’t help. I hadn’t seen him all morning, so I assumed he was fine. I was actually on my way to get it from him because Soldier is complaining of similar ailments.”

“Soldier actually came to you?” Engineer asked incredulously. Sniper looked up and saw that Spy had silently come into the room, standing at Engineer's side. Both men looked on edge. 

“That is exactly how I felt,” Medic said, turning his attention back to Scout. He placed his fingers against the side of the kid’s neck, gently applying pressure from the base of his chin all the way down to his visible collarbone. The doctor set his mouth into a thin line of frustration, evidently not finding anything of note there. 

“We need to move him to the infirmary,” Medic said, pushing himself back up to his full height and adjusting his spectacles. “Sniper, do you think you can lift him?”

Sniper merely nodded. Scout weighed about as much as a wet napkin when he was fully awake. Sniper figured it’d be even easier to do it now, when the kid couldn’t bitch and moan about it just being a broken leg, he could limp back to base on his own, thank you very much. He gently patted Scout’s cheek to rouse him again, and said, “Lad, I gotta lift you up, okay? Just to get to the infirmary.”

Scout made no indication he’d heard other than scooting himself away from Sniper a bit to give the other man room. Sniper took up the kid’s arm and slung it behind his own neck, and he felt Scout try weakly to tighten his hold around him. Good. At least Scout was slightly aware of what Sniper was trying to do. The support of his arm would keep him from falling backwards too much and making him cumbersome to carry. Sniper then hitched an arm behind Scout’s back and under the crook of his legs, and hoisted him up with quiet grunt. This close, the heat radiating off Scout was almost unbearable.

Medic motioned for Sniper to follow after him and started walking out the door. Spy and Engineer followed close behind.

As they walked, Medic said, “I will need to look him over more thoroughly, but I have a feeling I will find similar symptoms to Soldier’s - sore throat, aching muscle. I thought perhaps it might be the flu, but this fever, and with how shallowly Scout is breathing, it makes me lean more towards pneumonia. It can be contagious if it’s a bacterial infection.”

Sniper glanced down at Scout, who’d gone back to burying his face into the soft fabric of Sniper’s shirt. Sure enough, the kid’s chest was rising and falling quickly, like all that sprinting he did on the field had actually managed to wind him. Unconsciously, Sniper tightened his grip on him.

“Hopefully, that won’t be the case,” Medic continued. “But it can’t hurt to be certain. Best to confine the disease early so it doesn’t spread further. Speaking of which, you’re going to want a shower, Sniper. Being that close to him could infect you as well.

Sniper didn’t answer. He’d worry about himself later, once he knew the boy would be alright. 

Finally, they came upon the infirmary doors. Just as Medic was about to push his way in, a voice from behind them piped up. “What the hell is going on?”

All four men stopped dead, and slowly turned around. Behind them stood Miss Pauling. She held a book at her side, and a look on her face that was, simultaneously, full of confusion and demanding answers. As soon as she saw Scout, her eyes widened minutely in shock. Her gaze passed around between the four of them.

Spy sighed and said to the others, “Take him inside and do what you need to do.” He still held himself rigidly, but seemed relieved to actually be able to do something.

Sniper, Medic, and Engineer hesitated, but eventually did as Spy asked. As they disappeared into the infirmary, Sniper heard Spy say, “I swear I can explain that.”

\------------------

Good news: Scout and Soldier didn’t have pneumonia. After getting Scout situated on the one bed the infirmary had, Medic had pressed his stethoscope against the younger man’s back and listened. Scout’s lungs sounded completely clear. None of the rasping that traditionally came with the mucus-infested lungs pneumonia brought on. 

Same with Soldier. His fever was nowhere near as high as Scout’s, but he still looked like he’d been run over, and his movements were slow and sluggish. After he’d finished looking him over, Medic had actually let him lie down on the gurney he occupied, and Soldier had drifted right off to sleep.

Truthfully, Miss Pauling wanted to do the same. 

“I suppose it could be a particularly strong strain of the flu,” Medic told her, as he inserted an IV needle to pump saline solution into Scout’s arm. The younger mercenary had been incredibly dehydrated from spending all night sweating profusely. “But the aspirin should have helped. Unless the fever came on suddenly. But the flu also doesn’t typically cause a fever of 105.”

Oh, this was the opposite of what she needed right now. Mysterious viruses that came on suddenly? She’d rather take her chances with thumb reattachments, thanks.

She kept these grievances to herself though. She knew that the others felt bad enough without her complaining thrown in. While Spy had explained the situation to her outside the infirmary, she could tell that he was fighting to keep his cool and not start panicking. He’d told her about finding Scout after having to break into his room, and the fever and the fact Scout was too weak to talk or do anything really, and she’d actually been concerned that he’d come apart at the seams, right there. So she’d capped her ever-climbing stress and let Medic do damage control. 

“I will need to keep them both here for now,” Medic said, securing the IV with a piece of medical tape. “I can monitor them more closely that way, maybe figure out exactly what this is. It will also be an effective quarantine. Until I know for sure what’s happening here, I need everyone to stay out unless I ask them to come here. Understood?”

Engineer, Sniper, and Spy all nodded. Miss Pauling had never seen them all looking more miserable. They had no answers, and they were all clearly worried out of their minds. She actually felt kinda bad for even feeling inconvenienced by all this. 

Medic waved them away, instructing them all to take hot showers as soon as they could, and to inform Heavy, Demo, and Pyro to keep their distance. 

When they were back out in the hall, Sniper and Engineer headed towards the mess hall. Spy immediately took off in the direction of his smoking room. Miss Pauling trailed after him. 

She wanted to make sure he was okay. They others would do their best to console Sniper and Engineer. But Spy tended to keep to himself, even when things got really bad. And from the way he was carrying himself now - back ramrod straight, fingers twitching in need of a cigarette, and pace harried - she knew things were bad.

They walked without saying a word, only the sound of the shoes tapping briskly against the floor filling the silence. Miss Pauling took this as a positive sign. If Spy didn’t want her around, he would surely say something.

They reached his smoking room. Spy walked in, leaving the door open. Miss Pauling followed, supposing this was as good and invitation as any. She shut the door behind her, and turned to face Spy in the dimly lit room. There was a crackling fire in the fireplace, and two armchairs facing it, a table between them. Spy was off at the sideboard, upon which was a decent selection of liquors. He grabbed a bottle of amber-colored liquid, took out the stopper, and poured freely, until the glass was nearly full. Then he tossed it back and immediately began pouring another.

Alright, it was definitely time to speak up. 

“Spy -” she began.

Spy cut her off, asking, “Did you want one? I have plenty.” He didn’t even wait for her to reply. He just grabbed another glass and filled it.

“Spy, do you wanna talk?” 

For a moment, her only answer was the sound of the drink being poured. 

“Not particularly,” Spy finally replied. He picked up the glass and walked over to her, extending it. She took it out of politeness.

Her face must have betrayed some sort of pleading, because Spy closed his eyes a bit and sighed. “I do not mean to be short with you,” he said. “When I say I do not want to talk about things, that is partially because I don’t feel able to. I am...not used to feeling this way. About people, you know?”

He turned from her and walked to the armchairs, sitting down heavily in one. She followed and sat in the other, setting the book she’d been carrying on the table. She didn’t say anything. She wanted him to talk in his own time. 

Spy heaved another sigh, and swirled his drink a bit in his hand. “You know, most people would assume doing things like this - sneaking off to hide away by myself - it must mean I don’t care.”

“You do though, don’t you?” It wasn’t really a question.

Spy looked at her out of the corner of his eye, and to her surprise, he huffed out a laugh and gave a wry smile. “You are correct. I do. I sometimes wish to God I didn’t care. But I do.” He took a long drink from his glass. When he finished, he continued, “Before I came here, I learned very quickly that one does not get far by caring about anyone else. Most spies view that as weakness. We look out for ourselves, and that is what gets our jobs done. What keeps us from keeping ourselves killed.”

Another beat of silence filled the room. Miss Pauling cautiously took a drink from her glass, just to have something to fill the void. It burned all the way down to her belly. She was surprised to taste a hint of caramel at the end. It was actually kind of nice.

“If this had happened four years ago, I imagine I would still feel that way,” Spy added, almost quietly enough that Miss Pauling didn’t hear him.

“Being crammed in close quarters and getting shot at every day together would probably change anyone’s mind about that,” she said.

“Indeed,” Spy replied. “I was actually afraid when I saw Scout in his bed like that. For a moment, I thought he was dead. I actually felt panicked. Then I just stood there, like a useless fool. And do you know what I said to Sniper before I offered to pick the lock for him? That I’d thought about _murdering_ the little whelp. If ever there was a worse joke to make…”

Spy quickly drained his glass again, and stood up to get more. 

“Well, it was just a joke,” Miss Pauling said, wishing she could keep him from filling his glass again, but knowing he wouldn’t listen. “Sniper and Engie know you didn’t mean it.”

Spy didn’t answer. She heard him pour more liquor into his glass. 

“Spy,” she said firmly. He didn’t turn to look at her, but the pouring stopped, and he straightened up. “This isn’t your fault. It isn’t anyone’s fault. Scout and Soldier are just sick. It happens all the time, even to guys like you. You cannot blame yourself for this, because all you’ll do is make yourself feel like shit.”

He still didn’t turn to look at her, but she heard him replace the glass stopper in the bottle and set it back down. 

“It’s good that you care, Spy,” she continued. “I know you’ve been taught that it’s a weakness, but it isn’t. It’s the reason you guys work so well as a team. It’s why you’ve all lasted this long.”

Spy still hadn’t turned to look at her. The half-filled glass was still firmly clutched in his hand. 

Miss Pauling stood up and closed the distance between them. For a moment, a few inches from Spy’s back, she hesitated, her hand dangling in the air. She didn’t know what kind of touching would be appropriate, what Spy would be comfortable with. She wanted to hug him. She felt like he needed one, even if he himself didn’t think so. Finally, she settled for placing a gentle hand in the middle of his back. He only started a little, as if he’d been trying to prepare himself for contact, but still wasn't completely ready.

“It’s okay, Spy,” she murmured.

He let out a shaky breath. She didn’t dwell on that. 

He finally turned to face her again, and even though he was still holding the glass, there was something more relaxed about his posture, the air around him. He was finally at ease. “Thank you, Miss Pauling,” he said. He gave her a small smile.

She smiled back. “Oh, by the way,” she said, abruptly transitioning to her Girl Friday voice. She needed, wanted, to take Spy’s mind off things. The appropriate tone help. “I started reading the book last night.”

“Really,” Spy said. His smile broadened. “And what do you think so far?”

“You were on the mark with me and Elizabeth. Especially when it comes to her mother.”

Spy chuckled a bit, and they began to drift back over to the chairs. “Yes, Mrs. Bennett is indeed quite ridiculous,” he said. “But there are modern scholars who try to give her a bit of leeway. After all, many of the things she grouses about were real fears of Regency ladies.”

“I guess. It might not bother me so much if she actually seemed like she was more worried about her daughters than who was going to provide for her.”

“Quite true. To say nothing of her behavior sabotaging her daughters’ - and therefore her own - chances.” Spy resumed his seat in front of the fire, and motioned to the glass Miss Pauling had set down. “Drink up,” he urged. 

Miss Pauling took up her glass again and said, “Alright, but I don’t think either one of us needs anymore of it. I had a sip and I’m already feeling funny.”

“Ah yes, this bottle is particularly...potent, I must admit. My original intent was to, how do you say, ‘get buzzed’, after all,” Spy said. “But I refuse to allow good cognac to go to waste. Especially when it costs $2,000 a bottle.”

“Damn, I better get to drinking then,” Miss Pauling said, picking up her abandoned glass. “Make sure you get your money’s worth.”

Spy raised his glass. “So, have you met Mr. Darcy yet?”

“You mean the king of the dorks?”

Spy almost snorted his cognac right back into the glass as he laughed.


	3. Chapter 3

Sniper was bouncing his leg again. Even if Engineer hadn’t been able to see it, it was making the crate underneath him tremble slightly. The beer in the bottle next to Sniper’s foot rippled. 

“You keep that up and that bottle’s gonna tip over,” Engineer said, trying to keep a smile in his voice. “Then you’re gonna have to explain to Demo why a perfectly good bottle of beer went to waste.”

“Sorry,” Sniper muttered. His bush hat dipped lower, covering his eyes. Engineer could have sworn he saw the other man flush just a little.

If he didn’t already know what was making Sniper so awkward, this would almost have been endearing. 

They’d managed to play a few rounds of poker after getting Scout situated in the infirmary, but the atmosphere had been tense after Engineer had explained to Heavy, Demo, and Pyro what was going on. The game had been uncomfortably quiet, and they’d all played rather abysmally. Even Pyro, who usually bobbed around the table, sneaking peeks at everyone’s cards and humming nonsense songs to himself, had sat glumly at Engineer’s feet, clicking his lighter.

After a few hours, Heavy and Demo had folded, going back into the bowels of the barracks to distract themselves in other ways. Pyro disappeared into his quarters to do heaven knew what. 

Engineer had managed to convince Sniper to stick around and play some rummy, though, truthfully, the other man had needed little in the way of actual convincing. And really, Engineer hadn’t felt like it’d be a good idea to leave the marksman on his own right now. Sniper moved like a zombie, and his already sparse conversational skills were practically nonexistent. They’d moved the game into the loading bay, so they could slide up the door and listen to the rain, sluicing off the overhang. Engineer hoped that maybe that would calm Sniper down a bit, but so far, it hadn’t helped much. 

“You know Medic will let us know if anything changes,” Engineer offered. 

“I know,” Sniper muttered again. He kept his gaze fixed firmly on his cards. “I just…” 

A beat of silence, filled only by the rain.

“Just what?”

“...I shoulda checked on him sooner. Maybe he wouldn’t have gotten so bad if I’d tried to look in on him earlier.”

“Snipes, beating yourself up over this ain’t gonna help anything.”

“I know,” Sniper repeated. He finally raised his eyes to meet Engineer’s. They looked weary.

“Look, Snipes, I know you’re close to the kid, but he ain’t dying,” Engineer said. “Just take it easy. Medic figured out how to heal fatal injuries with the flip of a switch. The kid’s in good…” Engineer trailed off and rethought his words for a moment. “He’s in capable hands.” There. That was much better.

To his relief, that actually seemed to get a smile out of Sniper. “I don’t mean to be such a sad-sack,” he began. 

Engineer cut him off. “You don’t gotta apologize to me. We all know the two of you are close. He’s practically your kid brother. Stands to reason you’d be concerned about him when he’s sick. Your draw, by the way.”

Sniper drew his card, arranging it among his hand. “Scout certainly seems to think of me that way,” he said. He laid down a set of three queens. “Doesn’t surprise me though, from what I gather about his brothers.”

“What about ‘em? I never heard him mention his brothers much,” Engineer said. He drew a seven of hearts. He added it to the seven set on already out, then tossed out a king of spades. 

“That’s just the thing. He hardly ever talks about them, even if ya ask,” Sniper replied. He took the king off the discard pile, threw out a black two. “He’ll go on for hours about his mum, but mention his brothers to him and he gives ya a look like ya just spit on his shoes. Wants to be done talking about them as soon as he can.”

“That’s familial strain if I ever heard of it,” Engineer replied, taking the two to complete his run. “Not that I’m the expert. Ma and Pop never saw a reason to have anymore after me.”

“Consider yourself lucky,” Sniper replied. “I know what it’s like to have a shitty older brother.”

“You got a brother?” Engineer asked. He barely knew anything about Sniper’s family situation. Ironically, Sniper seemed to be just as tight-lipped about it as Scout was about his brothers. Only reason he knew the other man’s mother was alive was because she occasionally sent him stuff in the mail. 

“Yep,” Sniper said simply. He took a sip of his beer, then drew. “Younger sister too. Both arseholes in their own way, but me brother was worse. Alice was usually content to ignore me, think I was embarrassing. Robby tended to be a bit more involved. Most of the kids who beat the snot out of me when I was young were his friends. Never laid a finger on me himself - he knew Mum and Dad would find out and he’d never hear the end of it - but he never even tried to stop his fuckwit friends.” 

Sniper rearranged his hand a bit, then threw out a red ten. His face was totally neutral. He may as well have just described the weather.

“Damn, Snipes,” Engineer said. “That sounds rough.”

Sniper waved him off. “Nothing to be done about it now,” he said. “‘Sides, if it weren’t for him, I would never have taken to hiding in trees and chucking rocks at the tossers. In a way, he’s why me aim is so good. Now, Robby mostly sticks to stupid little barbs about work and family and such. Wants to make me feel like a failure. Make me think Mum and Dad think I’m a failure.” Sniper smiled as he took another drink of his beer. “Joke’s on him though. I ever get tired of his nonsense, I can just put one right in his bulbous forehead.”

Engineer couldn’t help but laugh. As a kid, he’d often wondered what it would be like to have siblings, someone to play and explore and tinker with. In his more lonely hours, he’d imagined it was like having a sidekick, a constant companion. Hearing this made him realize he’d probably dodged a bullet.

“I just joke, a’course,” Sniper added. “Mum made me promise I would try to stay civil with Robby as long as she was still alive. She didn’t say it had to be in the same continent though.” Sniper smirked.

Engineer chuckled again, and said, “Well, for what it’s worth, you’re a much better brother to Scout than your brother and his brothers both combined. Doubt he’d ever want to throw rocks at you, anyway.”

“It’d certainly help his aim.” Sniper grumbled, though the smile was still clear in his voice.

As the two men shared another hearty chuckle, they heard the door to the dining hall open. The smells of butter and garlic wafted towards them. It made Engineer’s mouth water, and he realized just how hungry he was. He shouldn’t have been all that surprised. No food since breakfast and a belly full of beer wasn’t exactly enough to sustain a man. 

Heavy poked his head around the corner. “I make dinner,” he said as cheerily as his rumbling bass would allow. 

Heavy didn’t cook for them often, but when he did, it seemed to brighten the big guy’s mood immensely. Probably brought him closer to home. The big guy also made a point not to bring his family into his work environment. But it was easy to see how the big guy positively lit up when the mercs discussed their homes, their childhoods, and especially their mothers.

“Who wins?” Heavy asked, motioning to the cards still strew out on the crates.

“Nobody, yet,” Engineer said. He stood up and stretched a bit, setting his cards where he’d been sitting. He grabbed up his beer. “But I gotta get some grub in me before I can play anymore.”

“Same, mate,” Sniper said. “I’m starving. Can’t beat your ass running on empty.”

“Last I checked, you got more cards in your hand than me. And I got more points.”

“Tides turn when you least expect ‘em, mate.”

“Pretty sure that ain’t how tides work…”

They followed behind Heavy down the hall. Mixed with the buttery garlic smell was the smell of boiled potatoes and warm bread. Engineer’s stomach gave a soft gurgle.

He saw Heavy smile appreciatively. “You fetch Spy and Miss Pauling, then we eat. I take Doktor dinner and you finish game. Then you deal Heavy back in for poker, da?”

They entered the dining hall. Pyro was already sat at the table, squirming excitedly at his place. For whatever reason, Pyro absolutely loved mealtimes. He seemed to enjoy just being around the mercs, all together, in each other’s company. Maybe he thought of them as his family. If Engineer knew hardly anything about Sniper or Heavy’s families, it was safe to say he knew bupkis about Pyro’s. He ventured to guess not even the Mann Co. administration had a hell of a lot on him. 

When Pyro saw Engineer, he waved enthusiastically. 

Hmm. Family. That seemed to be coming up a lot this evening. 

Engineer waved back, then said to Heavy, “Hopefully, we all play a little better on full stomachs.”

“I worry for others. When I worry, I cannot concentrate,” Heavy said, pulling plates and utensils out. “Cooking a good distraction. Makes me feel better, takes thoughts away from worries.”

“Well, you ain’t gotta worry too much about Scout and Soldier,” Engineer said. “They’ll be fine once Medic figures out what’s wrong.”

“Not just Scout and Soldier,” Heavy replied. “Also for Spy. Has been in smoking room all day.”

“Ain’t like that’s anything new,” Sniper grumbled. “Disappearing is about all that spook’s good for, once his job is done.”

“He prefers privacy, same as you,” Heavy said simply. 

Sniper didn’t respond outside of a snort of derision, but Engineer saw him lowering his hat back over his eyes a bit. He knew that Sniper held very little love for spies of any kind. Came with the territory when your job was to sit still, off by yourself. You were basically a sitting duck. 

Most of Sniper’s vitriol was aimed at the BLU spy, but Engineer wouldn’t exactly call Sniper’s relationship with their own spy that much friendlier. He didn’t rightly recall a conversation between the two men that lasted more than a few sentences. And those few sentences ranged from cooly professional to biting, depending how either man felt at any given time. 

Honestly, Engineer would rather keep it to the former end of the spectrum this evening. The day had been stressful enough. 

“I think I can wrangle up Spy and Miss Pauling myself,” Engineer said quickly, heading towards the barracks. “Go ahead and make me a plate,” he called over his shoulder before he got too far away. He’d do a lot to preserve the peace, but not miss out on meals when he was hungry.

As he walked in the direction of Spy’s smoking room, Engineer let his thoughts drift to what Heavy had said about Sniper and Spy. _He prefers privacy, same as you._

Engineer was sure if he ever told Spy such a thing, he’d be laughed at. But now that he thought about it, he could see where Heavy was coming from. Spy wasn’t exactly what anyone would call a social creature. He tended to keep himself closed off. Next to Pyro, he was the merc with the most mysterious past, the one no one knew anything about. Not even his accent was any help to pinpoint where he was from, what with the mix of Spanish, Italian, and Romanian thrown in along with the French. 

Spy seemed to prefer things that way. He offered up nothing more than what was enough for him to skate by, under people’s radar. That was the very basis of his career, after all.

That being said, Spy was still flesh and blood. He was charming and could carry on a conversation, sure, but Engineer had always had a feeling it was difficult for him to maintain that charm constantly. There was this look he got when it was clear that he wanted to be away from someone, away from people, and it didn’t even seem to be a look of annoyance or aggravation. It was more...tiredness. Like a dispenser that was running on low, Spy needed a break, to recharge himself. 

As such, Spy spent a good deal of time by himself. No one had any idea what he did during all that time, and no one really asked. Engineer didn’t think Spy would tell them even if they did. 

Sniper tended to do the same. He would go out into the woods whenever they were at one of the mountain bases, and just stay out there for hours. He’d come back at dark like that was nothing unusual. To top that off, he spent most nights in his camper van, parked out back. Even Spy actually slept in the barracks. 

_He prefers privacy, same as you._

He thought about Sniper’s brother, whose childhood cruelty had driven a young Sniper into the trees to chuck rocks at him. It was easy to see where Sniper’s desire for privacy had come from. 

And that just got him thinking about family again. So many of them had some kind of thing with their families. Sniper’s contemptuous siblings. The contention between Scout and his brothers, whatever it was. Heavy’s secrecy. Pyro and Spy and the complete lack of anything about them. 

Soldier was in the same boat. No one could get a coherent story about his life before Mann Co., unless they asked him about Poland. And sometimes even if they didn’t. 

Then there was Demo’s own tumultuous childhood that Engineer still couldn’t rightly figure out. Something to do with the Loch Ness Monster and an ancient Highland tradition. 

It made the loneliness of his own childhood seem downright idyllic by comparison. Distant dads and few friends kind of paled in comparison to the lives his colleagues had. 

Huh. Maybe in a way, they were more like family to each other than Engineer had realized. It was definitely the better alternative for some of them.

As he came upon Spy’s smoking room, he heard muted voices from within. One of them sounded feminine. Unless Spy had another girl hidden away somewhere, he guessed that was Miss Pauling. Saved him the trouble of having to find her. 

He knocked gently, and it actually took a moment for the door to open. In the meantime, he heard stumbling steps, someone hitting something solid, and a French swear. Miss Pauling laughed a little, and Engineer heard her ask Spy if he was okay. Spy’s answer was slurred French. Enigneer heard a few more swears thrown in for good measure. 

After a few more moments, Spy opened the door. He was pretending very hard that the scene within had not just happened, and Engineer had not just heard it. To anyone who didn’t know better, he seemed exactly the same put-together, slightly bored looking Spy as usual. He stood erect, his face impassive, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. 

Too bad you could practically smell the booze on him. 

“Did you want something, laborer?” Spy asked. He was make a conscious effort not to slur, each word punctuated carefully. He attempted to take a puff of his cigarette, only to realize that he hadn’t lit it yet. A frantic hand shot into Spy’s waistcoat and began fishing around. He nearly dropped his lighter when he pulled it out and flicked open the lid. The entire time, the bored expression on his face stayed firmly in place. Engineer’s gut hurt from trying not to burst into hysterical laughter.

“Just wanted to let y’all know that Heavy’s got dinner ready,” Engineer replied. It was getting harder and harder not to laugh. “‘Less of course you two’d rather stay and continue...whatever you got going on in there.”

“Oh, food!” Engineer heard Miss Pauling exclaim from inside. She, unlike Spy, made absolutely no attempt to hide how clearly inebriated she was. She wobbled to the door, holding a very expensive looking bottle in her hand. She eventually got close enough to Spy to lean on his arm heavily. Spy’s mouth twitched in a smile. 

“I’m suuuuper starving,” she said, tugging the sleeve of Spy’s suit jacket, looking up at him like a child begging their parents to take them into a toy store. “Let’s go. I-I don’t even care what it is. Sniper could literally be cooking possum right now and I would not care. I jus’ need food.” She seemed to realize she was still holding on to the bottle of whatever they’d been drinking. “Oh! Can we bring the bottle? I’m bringing the bottle.” She shook it a bit.

“Weren’t you the one that said neither of us needed to drink anymore?” Spy asked, slowly slipping the bottle from Miss Pauling’s fingers. He began walking towards the dining hall, with Miss Pauling still clinging to his arm like she was his prom date. He looked as close to busting a gut as Engineer felt.

“That was past-Miss Pauling. Now-Miss Pauling wants to bring the bottle.” She made a grab for it.

“No, no, no, no more cognac for you, _mon cher_ ,” Spy said, holding the bottle just out of her reach. Engineer stepped out of the way just in time to not be beaned in the face with it. 

“ _Merde_ , apologies,” Spy said, once he realized what he’d almost done. He shoved the bottle into Engineer’s arms. “Keep this from her, at all costs. Drink some of it if you like, but do not let her have another drop.”

“Joke’s on you, Frenchie,” Miss Pauling said. “If I want more, I can just exercise some of my feminine wiles and Engineer will totally just give me that bottle.”

“Really?” Spy said. “And what exactly do you have in the repertoire of feminine wiles?”

Miss Pauling opened her mouth to reply, but a look of absolute puzzlement swept across her face. For roughly thirty seconds, she walked with her mouth open, looking like she was trying for the life of her to come up with something resembling feminine wiles. 

Finally, she said, “I dunno, something involving belly dancing? I mean, I don’t know how to belly dance, but it doesn’t look that hard.” 

Dear lord, Engineer wished he had a camera. 

\-------------

Heavy didn’t like to brag, but that was probably the best chicken kiev he’d ever made. Mama would have been very proud, especially if she’d seen the way the team sopped up the sauce with the bread he’d heated in the oven. 

If cooking had not made Heavy feel at ease, the friendly, comfortable atmosphere at dinner certainly would have done it. It was a welcome change of pace from the stressful afternoon, even if Heavy had to attribute it to the team’s alcohol consumption for the day (except Pyro, who was just happy to be there). Demo was obvious, and Engineer and Sniper had gone through quite a few bottles of beer during their rummy game, downing more with their dinners. Not to mention both took nips from the bottle Spy and Miss Pauling had brought with them from Spy’s smoking room. 

It had been immediately obvious what they’d been up to all day, from the way they swayed as they walked into the dining hall, chuckling between themselves. Engineer looked positively tickled at the display.

Miss Pauling was far less ladylike than she had been at breakfast, wolfing down her food like a woman starved. Spy opened himself up a great deal, facing everyone, with a lazy smile on his lips, something Heavy doubted he would have done had all his faculties been about him. It wasn’t exactly the way he would have liked Spy to be dealing with things, but Heavy did not feel it was his place to judge. After all, drinking several liters of vodka was practically a winter sport back home. He would simply have to indulge a bit himself to join the fun. He did have a bottle of Abrau-Durso he’d been saving, that momma had sent him for his birthday, and he’d been craving a nice bellini.

But that could wait until Medic had been fed. Heavy opened the door to the infirmary with one hand, balancing a plate covered in tin foil in the other. He knew there was no sense in knocking. Medic wouldn’t be paying attention enough to notice. 

The doctor was, indeed, hunched over his desk, completely enveloped in a thick medical textbook. The rest of his desk was covered in papers. He didn’t seem to have heard the door open or his doves cooing softly at the new person in the infirmary.

Off to the side, Heavy saw Scout and Soldier, still sleeping somewhat peacefully. He tried not to look at them for too long. The two most boisterous and energetic members of his team lying silent and still was just wrong to him. He focused on the task at hand. 

He approached Medic’s desk, Medic’s muttering getting more audible. Heavy managed to pick out the words “food poisoning”, “vitamin B”, and “appendectomy”.

He gently said, “Doktor?”

Medic almost jumped directly out of his chair, clutching the arms so tightly his knuckles went white. He looked up and Heavy saw his glasses had gone askew. The were practically sliding off his nose, and it forced Medic to squint up at him. 

“My apologies, Doktor,” Heavy said. “I brought you something to eat.”

Medic adjusted his glasses, and gulped a bit. “It’s quite alright, my friend. I...was a bit absorbed. I didn’t even realize it was that late.” He shoved a few papers out of the way, and found his watch. He grimaced a bit when he read the face, and quickly returned it to his pocket. 

“What have you learned?” Heavy asked. He set the plate down, removing the foil and pulling out the knife and fork he’d brought in his pocket. 

“Not much,” Medic responded. Heavy heard him sniff a bit as the steam from the food drifted closer to him. The tension seemed to drip out of the doctor’s shoulders. Heavy felt a swell of pride in his chest. 

Medic began cutting into the chicken and continued, “Every time I think I’ve found the answer, another problem arises.”

“What sorts of problems?” Heavy pulled over a wheeled stool and sat down. He knew Medic wanted everyone to stay away from the infirmary, for quarantine, but he felt that Medic needed a sounding board. Besides, he was a strong man, with the immune system of a brick wall. No silly virus was going to hurt him.

“Soldier’s fever increased, and I had to give Scout a mild sedative. His fever was keeping him from being able to rest,” Medic said before stuffing a huge bite of chicken into his mouth. He moved some papers aside, brought more towards him, not seeming to care that the butter sauce from his fork was dripping on them. “Whatever Scout has, Soldier definitely has it too. He’s obviously not responding to an aspirin regimen either. I’m going to see what antibiotics will do. If this is a particularly violent strain of the flu, that should help. If not...I suppose I’ll try something else.”

“Medigun will not help?” 

“I thought about that,” Medic replied. “But that would really only alleviate the symptoms for a short time. It was meant for more tangible injuries - broken bones, bleeding, and the sort. Bacteria and viruses are beyond its reach. Too small, you know. Unless it was purged from the body completely, the symptoms would just return.” He absent-mindedly speared a few potatoes and put them in his mouth, then set his fork aside to return to his textbook. 

Heavy sighed quietly. He knew this sort of thing was bound to happen. If Medic wasn’t reminded to eat and sleep when he got like this, he just wouldn’t do them. They impeded his work, they said, took his focus away from what was important. Heavy had since stopped trying to remind him that he wouldn’t be able to focus on his work at all if he was too exhausted and hungry to do it properly. He mostly just took the direct approach these days.

“You can find solution after you eat,” Heavy said firmly. He sounded like a mother scolding their child, and under normal circumstance, Medic would have given him a petulant look, reminding him that he was older than him and had the gray hair to prove it. 

Instead, Medic just muttered, “ _Ja_ , _ja_ , I will, do not worry about me.” Almost as if to placate Heavy, he crammed another forkful of potatoes into his mouth. 

Heavy set his mouth in a firm line, then placed one of his huge hands on top of Medic’s head. His fingers could almost touch under Medic’s chin. He gently turned the doctor to face him, and gazed down at him sternly. All Medic offered in return was a cheeky smile, and Heavy knew he was preparing to attempt to talk his way out of this, as he did with most things he didn’t want to do. Heavy cut him off before he’d barely opened his mouth.

“Don’t,” Heavy said. “Please eat, Doktor. I stay until food is gone. You are of use to no one if you do not take care of yourself first.”

“But I -”

“Heavy use mama’s recipe for chicken kiev. Do you want to insult Heavy’s mama?”

Medic narrowed his eyes at the obvious emotional manipulation. Heavy merely released his head and motioned back to the plate. Medic shoved aside his textbook and papers to make a space for it. He ate in defeated silence, but he did indeed clear his plate.

Heavy couldn’t help but smirk. As worried as he was for Scout and Soldier, he knew Medic would find the answers he needed. He’d keep him from running himself into the ground in the meantime.

\--------------

“You might as well give up now, bush man.”

Sniper merely rearranged his cards. He didn’t meet Spy’s eye. 

“I’ve played in some of the most prestigious casinos in the world. Monte Carlo. Monaco. Macau.”

Again, he held his silence.

“I have parted professional gamblers from their money more times than I can count.”

Sniper could feel Heavy, Engineer, and Miss Pauling’s eyes on him. In any other situation, that might have made him uncomfortable, more prone to mistakes. Not this time. Spy didn’t have a prayer.

“Here’s a thought,” he finally said. “How’s about you stop monologuing like a Bond villain and show us yer damn cards, eh?”

Spy gave him a Cheshire cat grin. “If you insist,” he said. He laid out his cards carefully. Three kings, plus a pair of tens. A full house.

Sniper let out a low whistle. “Not too shabby, mate,” he muttered. “Ain’t got nothing so high here. Bleeding shame.” Good lord, he was about to piss himself in anticipation. Finally, he laid out his hand - all diamonds, two, three, four, five, and six. 

He wished he could frame the face Spy made as he took in the straight flush. He would have laughed if Heavy and Engineer didn’t beat him to it, crowing like it was the funniest thing in the world. Even Miss Pauling was giggling a bit. Sniper basked in it for a moment. Nothing was quite as satisfying as making the fancy wuss eat his words.

“I do believe,” he said, “that means that the rest of this is mine.” He reached out and plucked the bottle of cognac off the table. Spy had used it as his bet, completely convinced he’d be walking it back to his smoking room after the game was over. Now the rest of it was going directly down his gullet. There wasn’t much left, only about six ounces or so, he’d say. But at seventy-eight bucks and some change an ounce, it was gonna taste mighty good going down.

“Very impressive,” Spy said tightly, tapping some cigarette ash into an empty beer bottle at his side. Sniper could practically see a vein bulging in his neck. 

Oh, sweet victory. 

Spy’s frustration must have been noticeable to more than just him, because Miss Pauling giggled again and leaned against Spy playfully. “Looks like you might wanna start sleeping with your gun in your bed, Sniper. Unless you want to wake up with a knife in the back.”

“You make it sound like I don’t already do that.” Sniper took the stopper out of the cognac and took a generous swallow. Damn, that was good stuff. Spy definitely had taste. One good quality about him then. 

To Sniper’s surprise, at Miss Pauling’s gentle tease, Spy seemed to relax a little. A tiny, mischievous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Oh please, I would never be such a poor sport,” he said. “If I really wanted to kill him, I would poison the liquor. More poetic, I think.”

And then the strangest thing happened - Spy winked at Sniper. It was the most familiar thing Sniper had ever seen the other man do. An acknowledgement of his joke, as if they were friends. 

The idea that Spy might consider him a friend was ludicrous to Sniper. It’s not like they ever spent any time with each other outside of the battlefield. Even when they did, they tended to keep their conversations as cool and professional and brief as possible. Because it really didn’t take much for either of them to make the entire exchange descend into a acidic argument, complete with childish name-calling.

Now that he thought of it, the time they’d spent speaking outside of Scout’s bedroom this afternoon was the longest they’d spoken to each other in weeks. They liked it that way.

After all, there couldn’t be two more different men on the planet. It wasn’t hard to tell Spy looked down on him, almost more than he did everyone else. Sniper’s accent, his mannerisms, the fact that he didn’t mind getting down and dirty - it all seemed to be offensive to Spy. He’d barely ever seen Spy with a speck of dirt on his suit after the work day was through. He went out of his way to stay clean and put together. 

And yet, here Spy was giving him cheeky winks and ribbing him and not calling him filthy and a savage. It was almost unnerving. 

Then again, Sniper supposed that could be blamed on the booze. A lot of the last few hours could be blamed on booze in one form or the next. 

Things had started simply enough - when Heavy had returned (with a bottle of sparkling wine, refusing to tell anyone where he’d gotten it) from taking Medic his dinner, they’d started up another round of poker. Miss Pauling watched one hand, and then asked if they’d be willing to teach her to play in the next one. Of course, Engineer had leapt at the chance, a firm believer in “that more, the merrier”. Sniper was just glad that something had managed to unwind her. 

They went easy on her for the first few hands, on account of her being a novice. Once it was clearly established she knew what she was doing, even in an intoxicated state, then there were no holds barred.

Then Heavy had made bellinis with his wine, using some dusty canned peaches he found in the kitchen cupboards. When they ran out of that, they passed around the cognac, Spy keeping the bottle away from Miss Pauling as often as he could, typically with a giant shit-eating grin on his face and some scolding in French. 

Of course, that didn’t stop Engineer from sneaking her the bottle every now and then. Something about her “feminine wiles”. Whatever it meant, it made Engineer laugh. 

By the fourth hand, Engineer had dug out the emergency bottles of scrumpy Demo kept above the refrigerator. Demo hadn’t exactly been happy about that, trying to get them to leave his stash be and drink the beer they had an abundance of, but he ended up being too out of it to put up a fight. His protests had slowly faded into gibberish as he laid his head down on the table, and soon enough he was snoring away.

Sniper tipped back the last of the cognac and let out a long, satisfied sigh. He swayed gently on his chair. “Looks like we’re gonna have to stick to good ol’ RED Shed from here on out, lads,” he slurred out. Beside him, Pyro was starting to stack the discard pile into a house. Demo still snoozed at the end of the table. Heavy and Engineer’s excitement from the poker win had vanished, and Heavy’s head was beginning to dip, the alcohol starting to finally effect the burly man. Engineer had folded his arms across the table, upon which he rested his chin.

Or perhaps they could save that RED Shed for another time. No one else looked like they had much left in them. 

Spy took one last drag from his cigarette and slid the butt into the bottle he’d been using as an ashtray with a look of disgust.. “You could not pay me money to drink any of that swill,” he said. “Pity someone cheated me out of my cognac…”

Sniper stuck his tongue out at him. Childish, yeah, but so was accusing the person who’d won fair and square of cheating. Alley-skulking wanker.

“You said keep the bottle away from Miss Pauling,” Engineer mumbled. 

“That was not an invitation to pilfer all of it,” Spy retorted. He pulled out his cigarette case to light another, but there weren’t any left. Sniper heard him mutter, “ _Putain de merde_.”

Engineer was no longer listening. As soon as he’d finished speaking, he’d hidden the rest of his face in his arms and let out a tiny grunt of suffering. Sniper could hardly blame him. He wasn’t exactly a lightweight, but he had noticed the room starting to spin when he’d finished off the cognac.

Or wait...was the room spinning? Or was it just his head? 

Next to him, Engineer let out a moan. Sniper swore he could actually hear the poor guy’s stomach churn.

“Oi, mate, you gonna chunder?” he asked, sliding over to Engineer’s side, reaching out to gently shake his arm. This close, he could see, indeed, Engie did look a bit green around the gills. Sniper had seen that miserable face many times in the mirror when he was in high school, young, dumb, and going too hard because he thought he was invincible. “You’re looking pretty rough, truckie. Maybe we oughta put you to bed.”

Engineer raised his head a bit, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he stared blankly ahead for a moment. 

Then, without warning, he hopped up from the table and ran to the sink. Sniper managed to turn his head before Engineer began to wretch. If he didn’t know whether he was sick or not, seeing another person puke up dinner would help her figure it out.

After a solid minute of Engineer vomiting into the sink, and a few more seconds of him dry heaving, he slumped against the counter. Pyro rushed to him, soft, concerned-sounding mumbling coming from under his mask.

Sniper tried to get to his feet, go help poor Engineer out, but as soon as he got to his feet, the world spun about like a top. His stomach gave a lurch as he grabbed the table for support. He didn’t know if his feet would walk a straight enough line to actually get to the sink. 

Fortunately, the noise had managed to rouse Heavy, the least drunk out of all of them. Sniper found himself grateful for Heavy’s ample girth. It meant that this much of the drink was enough to get him pleasantly buzzed at most. 

He rose from his chair with a soft grunt, and lumbered over to Engineer. Sniper was actually kind of shocked to see him stumble a bit, have to take very deliberate steps to steady himself. When he finally reached the Engineer, he placed a gargantuan hand on the smaller man’s back, and said, “I take you to bed, my friend?”

Engineer merely gave a limp nod, and allowed himself to be lead away. Heavy still kept his hand firmly in the center of his charge’s back, and Pyro trailed along behind them. They all knew that Pyro wouldn’t leave Engineer’s side until he felt better.

“He’s gonna be feeling that in the morning,” Sniper said, using a long arm to brush aside some empty beer bottles. Suddenly, they didn’t look so inviting. All that retching Engineer had been doing was starting to do a number on his own stomach. He mostly wanted to lie down. 

“I feel as though we all will be,” Spy replied, rising from his chair. “But I suppose we deserve it for indulging ourselves like children.”

Outside, the wind picked up, whipping the rain against the tin roof above them again. They all jumped at the sudden noise. Sniper had actually forgotten that it was raining at all while they’d been having their fun. “Passes the time in this pissy weather, at least,” he said. His words were quickly swallowed up in a yawn. He gave a look down at his watch. It was half past midnight. Pass the time, indeed. 

“Think it’s about time I was dragging me arse to bed,” Sniper said. “Can’t put off the inevitable, I suppose.”

“I guessh,” Miss Pauling slurred. She attempted to stand herself, but her heel gave from under her and she very nearly fell backwards. Spy swooping in like some kind of swashbuckler was the only thing that stopped her fall. Unfortunately for him, it looked like the liquor was catching up with him too, and he swayed dangerously.

“Whoa, careful there,” Sniper said. He stopped himself from running over to help them both. He knew that he’d only stumble himself, and they’d all get acquainted with the floor in a hurry. 

“Hey, hey, guys, c-can you tell the room to quit spinning,” Miss Pauling asked, her head bobbing a bit. “That’s, like...that’s really rude.”

Spy chuckled softly, pulled her arm over his shoulder, snaked his other arm around her waist, then turned to Sniper. “Would you mind helping me carry her? I think if you take one side, we should be able to stay balanced.”

“You think so?” Sniper took a tentative step, to test his legs, make sure the skinny sticks would stay standing.

“It’s worth a try, no? I’ll toss in a nightcap for incentive, if that helps. I have an excellent bourbon, back in my smoking room.”

“Really don’t think more alcohol is a good idea, mate.” Sniper finally made it over to them, and took Miss Pauling’s other arm. She was a limp noodle, quietly humming to herself. They started walking out to the hall.

“And why not? We’re already going to be miserably sick in the morning. One more drink is not going to change that.”

“Why don’t we just pickle ourselves so we’ll live to be a hundred and two?”

“Well, then how about this - it’s a shorter distance to carry Miss Pauling,” Spy said. After a moment, he added, “You realize I was kidding about poisoning you.”

“I actually did, but now that you’re bringing it up, how can I be so certain?” Sniper felt Miss Pauling fall back a little bit, and he quickly tightened his grip and pulled her up a little. “Careful,” he grumbled. “I’d rather not drop the lady who knows how to dismember a body so it fits in a hatbox.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I only have two hands,” Spy grumbled back. “I’m not...um…”

“You ain’t what?”

“That thing...you know, the fish, the one that doesn’t actually look like a fish? I can’t remember the word in English. The one with all the arms? Arm fish? It’s arm fish, no?”

Sniper barked out a laugh. “You mean an octopus?”

“Yes, that,” Spy said. Holy Mary, was he blushing?

“You forget English words?” Sniper asked, still laughing a bit.

“Only when I’ve had too much to drink,” Spy muttered. “But English is horrendous, even when I’m sober. And I’m honestly better at it than most of you.”

“How’d figure?”

“I still debate whether half the words Demo says are words in any language, let alone English.”

“Fair enough.”

“Not to mention the butchering Engineer and Scout give it. And they live here.”

At the mention of Scout, Sniper felt a small pang of guilt in his gut. He wondered if the kid was okay. Medic hadn’t come out of the infirmary all night, and Heavy had relayed the minimal amount of news to them when he returned for their card game. It didn’t give him a lot of hope for the kid making a speedy recovery. 

“Why so quiet all of a sudden?” Spy’s question dragged Sniper away from his thoughts, and he shot his head up to meet his eye. Spy was looking at him quizzically.

They were approaching the smoking room, and Sniper started thinking hard of excuses he could give to get away once they were there. He didn’t want to have a heart to heart with Spy. He’d had enough of heart to hearts. He didn’t even like Spy enough to entertain the idea. He was tired of being told things would be okay, when every hour that ticked by was giving him reason not to think so. Last thing he wanted was to hear the same thing out of the mouth of someone who thought he was better than him.

Spy reached out a hand to open the door, being careful not to loosen the grip he had around Miss Pauling’s waist. As soon as they were in and Miss Pauling was taken care off, Sniper told himself, he was begging off. He was gonna go to bed and let the sweet embrace of a drunken sleep take him until he was awoken by his rebelling stomach or an explosive headache or both. He’d take his chances with them.

The door swung open silently, wide enough for them to get through by turning sideways into the darkened room. The first thing Sniper was aware of was the strong smell of Spy’s cigarettes. They probably were going to linger in the room forever, with as many as Spy smoked. Mingling with the smell was burned cedar wood from the fireplace and the subtle aftershave he occasionally smelled on Spy when they passed each other in the hall. To his surprise, the scent combination made his eyelids feel heavier than ever.

Spy groped for a light switch on the wall, and the room was suddenly filled with soft light. “We can just prop her up in one of the chairs,” he said. “Probably safer, in case she gets sick.” 

Sniper didn’t answer him, just let himself be guided over to one of the armchairs by the fireplace. He was almost home-free. 

Together, they gently slid Miss Pauling down from around their shoulders, and had her sitting as comfortable as they could get her in the overstuffed armchair. Spy took a moment to gently pull the glasses from her face and set them on a side table nearby. Then he shucked his suit jacket and put it over her, like a blanket. Sniper just stared dumbly. Where was all this friendliness coming from in Spy? All this kindness? It couldn’t just be because he was drunk. There was a casualness about it all, like it was all second nature to him. 

This didn’t seem like the snooty frog that Sniper tolerated on a daily basis. He was starting to wonder if that man really even existed. 

Spy loosened his tie a bit, and started heading over to the sideboard. He pulled out a bottle, and two glasses. He must have seen Sniper gazing at him in confusion, because he smiled a little and said, “I promised you a nightcap, no? I pride myself on being a man of my word.”

Before Sniper could decline, say he wasn’t interested, blame exhaustion, drunkenness, anything to get the hell out of here and avoid whatever was about to happen, Spy said, “I also wanted to speak with you about something, if you wouldn’t mind humoring me.”

Piss.

“Sure,” he said dumbly. Spy was already pouring the drink. Sniper realized it wasn’t whiskey, but a dark wine. He could smell it from where he stood.

Spy walked over and handed Sniper a glass about half full. After taking a sip of his own glass, he said, “You are worried about Scout.”

Christ, he’d known it was coming. Why hadn’t he run?

Spy’s icy blue eyes were boring into him, awaiting his answer, even though something in Sniper felt Spy already knew full well what his answer would be. He awkwardly swirled the wine around in his glass.

Finally, he just muttered, “Yeah.”

“Good,” Spy said. “I am too.”

“Wait, what?”

“I’m worried about the little tick myself,” Spy said. He walked past Sniper, and, instead of taking the other armchair, he sat down on the floor, his long legs stretched out, in front of the fireplace. Despite the relaxed pose, now that Sniper was really looking at him, he could see the tension in Spy’s shoulders. The icy blue eyes darted about anxiously. Obviously, the declaration had not been something Spy had planned on telling Sniper.

Sniper walked slowly to Spy’s side, crouching down until he too sat on the floor next to him. He tried to keep his tone light, and said, “Thought you couldn’t stand the kid.”

“I find him boorish, insensitive, and irritating,” Spy said. He took another, longer drink of wine. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t like him. Does that make sense?” He looked to Sniper, his face genuine.

Sniper thought for a moment, the wheels in his head turning a bit slower than usual thanks to all this sauce. After some time, he said, “Yeah, it does. Kid’s not the easiest to be around sometimes.”

“You two are as quite close.”

“He’s like me little brother. And he can be just as annoying.”

Spy merely smiled a bit.

Sniper finally took a drink of his wine. It was rich and went down smooth. He took another. Then another. Before he knew it, he took a drink and the glass had been emptied. Then, without thinking, he said, “I wish Medic would say something.”

“I know.”

“And I’m tired of being worried about it, and whenever anyone asks, all they tell me is to be patient and everything will be alright and I just need to take it easy. I don’t feel like taking it easy, I’m in a bloody panic over the little mongrel.”

“I know.”

Sniper side-eyed him, searching the other man’s face. There was nothing there. “You do know, don’t you?”

“I’m tired, bush man,” Spy said suddenly. He twisted around, setting his glass on the side table by Miss Pauling’s glasses. When he turned back around, he grabbed Sniper’s arm, and began pulling him down to the floor with him. Sniper barely had time to react before he was on his back on the soft Persian rug. Spy was snuggling into his side. Sniper could smell his aftershave. Somehow, the smell made him even sleepier when it was this close.

“You feeling alright?” Sniper asked, reaching out to set his empty glass on the fireplace hearth. 

“Mm-hmm.”

“‘Cause I don’t want you to get sick or nothing,” Sniper said. He let his head sink further down, let his muscles relax. Lord, this carpet was so soft. 

“I’ll be fine.” Spy’s eyes slid shut. “Trust me, if I need to vomit, I’ll let you know so you can roll away.”

“And you’re sure you don’t wanna...I dunno, talk, or something?”

“Do you?” One icy blue eye cracked open, to stare up him. 

“...no.”

“Then be quiet, bush man, I’m sleeping.” The eye drifted shut again.

Sniper couldn’t help smiling a bit. He pulled his hat over his eyes, and let himself succumb to sleep, with a backstabbing nance buried in his side.

**Author's Note:**

> My very first TF2 fic that I've been working on for the better part of three years. Be gentle with me, this is a labor of love. Many thanks to my beautiful Shae for being my sounding board through all this nonsense.


End file.
